My body:
ever-unsleeping
mess of errors and glory;
my arms slippery from wiping tears;
my legs exposed rebar
in ruined walls.
This body:
physical manifestation of
my urge to look away;
millstone around my proud neck;
refuse, reclamation, refusal.
Any body at all would probably be
a problem for anyone who dwells
as much in their head as I do
but this one, this aged one
I cannot exchange,
this downward slope,
this case study?
I stare into its luminous interior,
a fire consuming me
with minute pains and suspicious
failures too small to treat
and too large to ignore, and say:
fine. Fine, body:
you are the game piece
I play with and you say
there are rules to be strictly followed now?
Fine, body, fine.
One question though: body,
would it have been different
in any way
if I had been touched
more often
during times when I craved touch
so much I almost wept
without it, or
would it have been different
in any way
if I had simply loved you more
myself during
those solitary times?
Would we still
be here, burning,
resigned, and
far too often
awake and aware
of the coming End
in the middle
of the night?
